FIC: Saving Face (Ryan/Simon, NC-17)
Jan. 17th, 2011 01:08 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
the_water_clockAuthor: Clio
Title: Saving Face
Pairing: American Idol: Ryan Seacrest/Simon Cowell
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Ryan didn't think that anything was going to change between him and Simon, but Simon had other ideas.
Length: 3900 words
Disclaimer: People sort of own themselves, don't they? Which means this is a work of fiction.
Notes: Takes place during season 4. A rewritten and expanded version of "Who's Afraid of Janis Ian?", the very first Ryan/Simon fic I ever wrote and a good story but it never really felt like me. This one does.
Thank you todana_kujan for looking this over!
Ryan hands off the mike pack and heads backstage. Two weeks until he can go back to being a scruffy radio personality and far away from this televised craziness. Back to his regular life with parties and hot girls and pre-taped interviews and countin' down the hits. And no more wrangling scared kids and so-called judges who are stoned or crazy (or both) for seven whole months.
Then again, it is exciting, like walking a tightrope two nights a week in front of the entire world, and the adrenaline runs through him and he knows he's on the fucking top of his game, the very top, and nothing will ever be like this again. Sure, the America's Top 40 gig will keep him from being a complete sad-sack has been, but there will never be anything like this, where you can fuck around with your buddy live on international television with everyone watching, and not a single one of them knows what the fuck you're talking about.
Fine, so he'll miss that part. But that isn't real life, anyway. It's about as far from real life as anyone could get.
He comes to his dressing room door, nestled in its quiet corner far from the circus created by the kids and Paula on the other side of the studio. The door is shut and no light shines from under it into the hallway, even though Ryan always leaves the door open and the lights on. He grins widely, because clearly someone has taken the bait—the bait he just laid out on international live fucking television.
He opens the door and walks inside, but before he can hit the light a muscular arm goes past his head and closes the door. Ryan can't help it; he's grinning like an idiot.
"You should lock your dressing room door," a deep voice says. "Anyone could just walk in."
"Why would I do that," Ryan asks, "when you have a key anyway?"
The other man sighs. "And here I was trying to disguise my accent."
Ryan hits the light switch behind him. "Your arms give you away every time, Simon." Which they do; Ryan loves how Simon's t-shirts can scarcely contain him, how civil conversation can scarcely contain him, really, which is the opposite of Ryan himself, whose clothes cover him neatly and whose speech is always completely under his control. Well, almost always, since Simon sometimes gets the better of him, both on and off stage.
Simon preens just a little, running a hand through his hair. "Have fun putting me on the spot, did you?" he asks.
"You certainly had fun being on that spot," Ryan points out. "You giggled like a girl."
"What would you say if, in turn, I pinned you to this wall?" Simon asks, stepping closer.
Ryan backs up, flat against the strong outer wall of his dressing room, which unlike the other sides is a proper wall, not a fake stage flat. "I would say you took the bait," Ryan replies, flashing Simon a smile.
Simon puts a hand on either side of Ryan and leans in close. Ryan realizes that he must have spent more time on the stage after the show than he thought, because Simon had time to take off his makeup, though there's a tiny bit of base still in the corner of his right eye. "You think you can play me like a violin, don't you?" he asks.
"Oh, I know I can," Ryan replies.
Simon moves in, crushing Ryan's head to the wall with the force of his kiss, and Ryan wishes that he'd had time to take off his makeup, too, because it's too slick, too slippery, and it can't taste that good to Simon, and my god what must his breath be like after all that Binaca at every break, and then Simon's tongue slides in through the clicking teeth and Ryan tries to move out of his own head and into the moment, even though as he does he remembers that the inability to do just that is why he never could act worth a shit.
Simon stops as quickly as he'd started, leaving Ryan to slump against the wall like a balloon with the air let out. He looks across the table, finding the cold cream and a towel, and returns to his mark. While nothing can make his dick harder than a debauched American pretty boy immediately post-kiss, the smeared makeup is just making him look a mess, really, which isn't at all the thing. He puts his hand into the pot of cream and wipes it across Ryan's cheeks.
"I can do that myself," Ryan protests, but Simon bats his hand back, so he takes off his jacket instead.
"I'll take care of you," Simon says as he continues his work. Ryan's eyes stare out at Simon as his bone structure disappears under the dollops of cold cream, so intense that Simon can't look into them for more than a half second. He uses the towel to wipe off the cream and makeup and sweat until Ryan looks a bit more normal and a bit less like a pre-fabricated American television presenter.
"Better?" Ryan asks.
Simon regards his handiwork for a moment. "Much better," he pronounces, tossing the towel aside and pulling Ryan toward him by the belt. They kiss again, only this time it's slower and softer and much nicer, Simon thinks, likely because Ryan is actually present. Despite all his cockteasing, Ryan can't be claimed too quickly or he won't pay attention to the matter at hand. He needs to be warmed up, which Simon kind of likes because Simon knows how to warm someone up. Really, it's just like being with one of those ice bitches he usually goes for, right down to the high-maintenance hair.
Simon unfastens Ryan's belt and trousers and pushes trousers and pants over Ryan's arse until they slip down his skinny legs. Ryan kicks them aside along with his shoes and then goes to work on Simon's jeans, though he does take a moment to cup his erection through the thick fabric. "How can you stand not to wear any underwear?" Ryan asks.
"It's easier," Simon replies, reaching for his own t-shirt.
"No," Ryan says. "Leave it on."
Simon raises one eyebrow but says nothing. Instead he turns to the dressing table, opening the top right drawer and feeling into the back for their stash. He comes up with a packet and a tube, tossing the tube to Ryan, who has since removed his own t-shirt and stands leaning against the wall, naked and hard and lovely. Simon tears open the packet and slowly rolls the condom over his hard cock, looking at Ryan all the while.
Ryan enjoys the show, then squeezes some of the lube onto his fingertips before tossing it back to Simon.
"You should let me do that," Simon says.
"But it turns you on when I do it," Ryan points out.
Simon scowls, as he always does when Ryan is right, and Ryan is absolutely right, because if there is anything hotter than a post-kiss American pretty boy, it's that American pretty boy so hot for your cock that he leans over in front of you and shoves his own lubricated fingers up his arse to prepare himself for you. "I don't know when it happened," Simon thinks as he rubs lube over his cock, "but at some point, Simon my boy, you definitely passed through the looking glass if this is a regular occurrence."
Ryan straightens, his legs a little unsteady, and wipes his fingers on the towel. "Are you really going to pin me to the wall?" he asks, unable to keep the eagerness out of his voice.
"I never make a promise I can't keep," Simon answers. He moves closer to Ryan, grabbing him by the waist and lifting him up and against the wall. Ryan wraps his legs around Simon, reaching down between them to guide Simon's cock to his slickened hole.
"Let go, and hang on," Simon says, oddly, but Ryan knows just what he means. He moves his hands to Simon's shoulders and lets go a bit with his legs, letting gravity pull him about an inch down onto Simon's cock. Simon shoves Ryan's shoulders back against the wall and begins the work, thrusting his hips as he takes Ryan's weight on his legs and shoulders, and Ryan holds on, riding Simon like a bronco but for much longer than eight seconds. Ryan wants to kiss Simon but he knows Simon won't have it, not during the fucking, so he tongues Simon's right earlobe and whispers, "Fuck me fuck me fuck me," over and over, because he can't think of anything else to say but can't shut up either.
Simon is relentless, fucking him hard against the wall just as he said he would. Ryan feels like he's being cut in two and sewn back together again with every thrust and retreat, thrust and retreat, thrust and retreat. He abandons himself to the rhythm, feeling the soft fabric of Simon's t-shirt slide against his cock. Simon is grunting like a wild man, fucking him faster, and then his whole body slams against Ryan, against the wall, and Simon pants because he's coming in little bursts, little tiny gasping thrusts, so Ryan stays very still, grabbing Simon's cock tight with his ass, until Simon is done and he pulls out slowly.
Simon kisses Ryan's shoulder, then bends his knees to ease them both onto the floor. He catches his breath for a moment, kneeling over Ryan, and Ryan finds that he is panting, too. Then Simon licks his lips before taking Ryan's still-hard cock into his mouth, which was all Ryan really needed. His hips buck and he comes, hard, into Simon's mouth and Simon sucks it all down, every drop, and Ryan slumps down, again, spent and fucked and aching and loving it.
Simon sits back on his ass, reaching for two bottles of water on the table. He hands one to Ryan and knocks his own back in two big gulps, watching as Ryan drinks and catches his breath. Then, keeping eye contact with Ryan all the while, he leans down and kisses Ryan, tenderly, on the back of his knee. Ryan’s eyes widen and he can’t quite breathe, seeing the look in Simon’s eyes, and though he knows that with everything that they are and have been to each other over the past years he shouldn’t trust it, oh how he wants to. Then Simon sits up and the moment is over.
"Randy wants to go out," Simon says, slipping the condom off his cock and putting it into one of the small plastic bags from the top drawer of the dressing table. He reaches for his jeans and slips them back on.
Ryan nods, finishing up his own water. "Give me fifteen to take a shower and change," he says.
Simon stands and reaches down to Ryan to help him up. "We'll be waiting," he says, giving him a quick kiss before heading out the door, almost as though nothing had happened.
Well, of course. Nothing did happen. They had a quick post-show fuck, which a lot of people do to blow off all that adrenaline. It's not like they're an item. They'll probably each pick up a girl or two before the night is over.
Ryan looks at himself in the mirror. His hair is askew, his lips swollen. His back and hips will probably be covered with bruises by the morning. His hips feel cracked open like a lobster shell, but he's sure that ten minutes out with Randy will put the alpha male right back into his walk. He goes into his shower, wondering why, with the night just starting, it feels so anticlimactic.
It had been all of a week and already Simon was feeling out of sorts.
He was back home in London, concentrating on Syco and the second season of X-Factor, both of which he should certainly care about more than a foreign television show he didn't even own. Though certainly LA had its charms.
The problem was, one of those charms in particular seemed to have worked his way under Simon's skin. Pulling one off to the memory of a certain blond, tanned, green-eyed radio personality was one thing; the boy did have quite a talented mouth. But laying in bed mooning over a picture of the two of them? Not on.
It wasn't like he'd never see Ryan again, as Idol auditions started in the late fall. And he had plenty to occupy his mind before then. But something would happen and his fingers would fairly itch to pick up the phone and call Ryan and tell him about it, hear his reaction, his laughter, even the entertainment-biz savvy that rose to the surface when he was behind the scenes. Simon had never missed Ryan between seasons before.
Right, that wasn't strictly true. There wasn't time to miss him between seasons one and two, and he did see Ryan during the other hiatuses. But the longing had never set in so quickly, or been so sharp. Indeed, they had spent a bit more time this season just being together, rather than always fucking, and Ryan had even given him some useful advice about X-Factor. But to call him after only a week? No.
At dinner the next night Terri, typically, laughed at him. "Why can't you call him?" she asked. "He's your friend, not some girl you just met."
"It just seems early," Simon replied. "I wouldn't want him to think anything inaccurate."
She cocked her head and looked at him, amused, which was irritating. "Why don't you just do what you like," she said, "and if your signals get crossed then perhaps you two will finally have the conversation you probably should have had two years ago."
"Two years ago?" Simon asked. "I don't know about that."
"Simon, you've been talking and thinking about him for at least that long, if not longer," she said. "I don't know why you're only working this out now."
"I thought it was just sex," he said.
Terri shook her head. "You really are an idiot, you know that?"
"Well, thanks," Simon replied.
"I mean it," she continued. "Don't you ever stop to think about what you're feeling?"
"Of course not," Simon said, "as that would require thinking about my feelings."
"He's not going to do it for you, you know," she said. "He's not even going to force you to do it."
"I dunno. He's certainly broken it off with me enough times. But he always comes back."
"That sounds healthy."
He shrugged.
"If you want him," she said, "you should treat him like anything else you want, and go after him. If not, you should leave him alone. At this point the on-off is a bit silly, don't you think?"
Simon scowled, tapping his fingers on the table. Terri went on eating, leaving him to his thoughts.
Finally Simon said, "Go after him how?"
"You're the one who knows him," she said. "You'll work it out."
Problem was, Simon was used to buying presents for ladies, mostly jewelry. So his usual go-to's were no-go's.
He started with that hoariest of old standards, the mix tape, or really a mix cd. Not sappy, not particularly heartfelt, no liner notes; simply a sampling of 80's Britpop songs he thought Ryan would enjoy. He asked his personal shopper to find a jumper in that elusive shade of gray-green that matched Ryan's eyes. He reread a favorite book and sent a copy to Ryan.
He called when he wanted to call, and wrote emails when he wanted to, until they were exchanging quick notes on a daily basis and chatting on the phone at least once a week. Simon had never been much for phone calls, but he liked hearing Ryan's voice, being able to tease him in real time and hear that goofy laugh of his. They exchanged stories about their day, updates about their projects, even advice and contacts.
It was strange—when they were in the same place, they didn't really talk so much as they fucked and then cracked jokes. But now that they couldn't fuck, there was a seemingly endless supply of conversation. Simon started thinking about a future with Ryan in it, about whether they could hide love as well as they had hidden lust, and found that oddly, it didn't scare him at all. Rather, he was calmer, thinking about a life with Ryan, than he had been any time since they'd parted in the spring.
But this sort of thing needed to be hashed out in person, not via email or over the phone. He had to make sure that Ryan had picked up the message he'd been sending—though knowing Ryan, he probably had.
And so, in his last bit of spare time before the live X-Factor shows began in October, Simon took an unannounced weekend trip to LA.
Ryan decided to grow a beard that fall. After all, there weren't any crucial Hollywood parties—that is, the kind with photogs and step-and-repeats—until the KIIS-FM Jingle Ball at the end of November. He liked that the beard grew in light brown, making him look less like a lightweight and more like a rock and roller, and he was seriously considering ditching the highlights because they were so damn high maintenance. Besides, if everything went as he hoped with E! he'd have a lot more jobs in the near future, and he probably shouldn't draw quite so much attention to himself on the red carpet.
He would have thought that being in the middle of a major deal would take his thoughts off whatever the fuck Simon was doing, but it was the opposite. Every time the deal changed slightly, it was Simon he wanted to talk to, not so much for advice as commiseration. It made sense, since Simon was the only person he knew other than Merv who'd done anything as big as this. And Merv was a big help, no doubt, but Merv was from the old school, and he was slowing down. Simon, despite his age, was all modern, and if anything was speeding up.
Besides, as much as they were friends, on the romantic side Simon was just a post-show fuck, and had been no more and no less for four years now. Simon was older and liked bitchy, high-maintenance girls with big tits and lots of hair, everyone knew that. Ryan liked girls too, although he liked them better back when he was getting them with Simon. Now he got them instead of Simon, which wasn't the same thing.
Ellen, his morning show co-host, popped her head into the booth. "You all right?" she asked.
Ryan started a little at the sound of her voice. "Yeah, yeah, go, I'm just gonna listen to a few things."
"Okay, then," she said, and let the door close behind her.
Simon was sending him emails almost daily, and called about once a week since the end of the season, so Ryan knew what Simon was up to and still felt connected, which wasn't true during the other hiatuses. Ryan wondered what that meant but it was probably nothing since most of what they talked about was whether Paula was going to calm the fuck down and get together with that friend of Simon's. Though sometimes Simon sent him little things, like a CD of old songs or a book he thought Ryan should read, or even the crewneck Ryan was wearing which he had to admit really did match the color of his eyes.
After a minute the door opened again and Ryan wondered when Ellen became such a worrywart about his welfare when he heard a deep voice say, "Still a workaholic, then?"
Ryan looked up sharply. "I—probably," he said.
Simon walked in and perched on the edge of the console. "I suppose you've done a good job with that beard," he said, "if you must have one."
"Thanks," he replied. "When did you get into town?"
"This morning."
"Oh. You didn't say you were coming in," Ryan said, and then realized he sounded a little pouty, so he put on a tough expression.
"I wanted to surprise you," Simon said. "And I was thinking that we should buy a house up in the hills."
"Why in the—we?" Ryan asked, his voice cracking in spite of himself.
"You have to come in so early, the commute won't matter much," Simon continued, as if Ryan hadn't said anything, "and we won't have to fuck in dressing rooms any more, and we can bring girls home if we want, and I'll have another house to stay in when I'm not in London."
"Oh," Ryan said, trying to process this, and then he asked, "So you're planning on being in LA more often?"
"Well, yes," Simon replied, as if it was obvious.
"You didn't say anything about it. What brought this on?"
Simon stood up and walked around the room a little, as he did when he got frustrated, then turned to face Ryan. "Have you not been paying attention at all?"
Ryan stared at him, confused.
"I've been courting you, you fucking moron!"
Ryan remembered the emails and the phone calls and the gifts, and it was like getting new glasses—the world came into focus, so. "I'm sorry, Simon."
He looked up and saw Simon's face fall a little and quickly added, "No, I mean, I'm sorry I didn't get it. I mean, um, I'm not sorry, you know, about anything else."
"Right, you make absolutely no sense," Simon replied, and crossed his arms, because he'd just actually said something about a feeling he had and now he'd lost control of the situation, which always made him defensive. Ryan saw him, read it all in his body language, and knew that this was not going to be easy in any way previously known to man, but a crazy fun house of a relationship. But that was really okay, because he needed a new challenge anyway. A new personal life to go with the new professional life seemed about right.
"I was saying, I know a broker," Ryan said. He walked over to Simon and kissed him, hard, just to make sure Simon knew that he wasn't always going to be in charge of everything. "And also," Ryan continued, "you should have told me."
"Well, I'm telling you now," Simon said, a bit breathless.
"All right then," Ryan said, and kissed him again.
Title: Saving Face
Pairing: American Idol: Ryan Seacrest/Simon Cowell
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Ryan didn't think that anything was going to change between him and Simon, but Simon had other ideas.
Length: 3900 words
Disclaimer: People sort of own themselves, don't they? Which means this is a work of fiction.
Notes: Takes place during season 4. A rewritten and expanded version of "Who's Afraid of Janis Ian?", the very first Ryan/Simon fic I ever wrote and a good story but it never really felt like me. This one does.
Thank you to
dana_kujan for looking this over!Ryan hands off the mike pack and heads backstage. Two weeks until he can go back to being a scruffy radio personality and far away from this televised craziness. Back to his regular life with parties and hot girls and pre-taped interviews and countin' down the hits. And no more wrangling scared kids and so-called judges who are stoned or crazy (or both) for seven whole months.
Then again, it is exciting, like walking a tightrope two nights a week in front of the entire world, and the adrenaline runs through him and he knows he's on the fucking top of his game, the very top, and nothing will ever be like this again. Sure, the America's Top 40 gig will keep him from being a complete sad-sack has been, but there will never be anything like this, where you can fuck around with your buddy live on international television with everyone watching, and not a single one of them knows what the fuck you're talking about.
Fine, so he'll miss that part. But that isn't real life, anyway. It's about as far from real life as anyone could get.
He comes to his dressing room door, nestled in its quiet corner far from the circus created by the kids and Paula on the other side of the studio. The door is shut and no light shines from under it into the hallway, even though Ryan always leaves the door open and the lights on. He grins widely, because clearly someone has taken the bait—the bait he just laid out on international live fucking television.
He opens the door and walks inside, but before he can hit the light a muscular arm goes past his head and closes the door. Ryan can't help it; he's grinning like an idiot.
"You should lock your dressing room door," a deep voice says. "Anyone could just walk in."
"Why would I do that," Ryan asks, "when you have a key anyway?"
The other man sighs. "And here I was trying to disguise my accent."
Ryan hits the light switch behind him. "Your arms give you away every time, Simon." Which they do; Ryan loves how Simon's t-shirts can scarcely contain him, how civil conversation can scarcely contain him, really, which is the opposite of Ryan himself, whose clothes cover him neatly and whose speech is always completely under his control. Well, almost always, since Simon sometimes gets the better of him, both on and off stage.
Simon preens just a little, running a hand through his hair. "Have fun putting me on the spot, did you?" he asks.
"You certainly had fun being on that spot," Ryan points out. "You giggled like a girl."
"What would you say if, in turn, I pinned you to this wall?" Simon asks, stepping closer.
Ryan backs up, flat against the strong outer wall of his dressing room, which unlike the other sides is a proper wall, not a fake stage flat. "I would say you took the bait," Ryan replies, flashing Simon a smile.
Simon puts a hand on either side of Ryan and leans in close. Ryan realizes that he must have spent more time on the stage after the show than he thought, because Simon had time to take off his makeup, though there's a tiny bit of base still in the corner of his right eye. "You think you can play me like a violin, don't you?" he asks.
"Oh, I know I can," Ryan replies.
Simon moves in, crushing Ryan's head to the wall with the force of his kiss, and Ryan wishes that he'd had time to take off his makeup, too, because it's too slick, too slippery, and it can't taste that good to Simon, and my god what must his breath be like after all that Binaca at every break, and then Simon's tongue slides in through the clicking teeth and Ryan tries to move out of his own head and into the moment, even though as he does he remembers that the inability to do just that is why he never could act worth a shit.
Simon stops as quickly as he'd started, leaving Ryan to slump against the wall like a balloon with the air let out. He looks across the table, finding the cold cream and a towel, and returns to his mark. While nothing can make his dick harder than a debauched American pretty boy immediately post-kiss, the smeared makeup is just making him look a mess, really, which isn't at all the thing. He puts his hand into the pot of cream and wipes it across Ryan's cheeks.
"I can do that myself," Ryan protests, but Simon bats his hand back, so he takes off his jacket instead.
"I'll take care of you," Simon says as he continues his work. Ryan's eyes stare out at Simon as his bone structure disappears under the dollops of cold cream, so intense that Simon can't look into them for more than a half second. He uses the towel to wipe off the cream and makeup and sweat until Ryan looks a bit more normal and a bit less like a pre-fabricated American television presenter.
"Better?" Ryan asks.
Simon regards his handiwork for a moment. "Much better," he pronounces, tossing the towel aside and pulling Ryan toward him by the belt. They kiss again, only this time it's slower and softer and much nicer, Simon thinks, likely because Ryan is actually present. Despite all his cockteasing, Ryan can't be claimed too quickly or he won't pay attention to the matter at hand. He needs to be warmed up, which Simon kind of likes because Simon knows how to warm someone up. Really, it's just like being with one of those ice bitches he usually goes for, right down to the high-maintenance hair.
Simon unfastens Ryan's belt and trousers and pushes trousers and pants over Ryan's arse until they slip down his skinny legs. Ryan kicks them aside along with his shoes and then goes to work on Simon's jeans, though he does take a moment to cup his erection through the thick fabric. "How can you stand not to wear any underwear?" Ryan asks.
"It's easier," Simon replies, reaching for his own t-shirt.
"No," Ryan says. "Leave it on."
Simon raises one eyebrow but says nothing. Instead he turns to the dressing table, opening the top right drawer and feeling into the back for their stash. He comes up with a packet and a tube, tossing the tube to Ryan, who has since removed his own t-shirt and stands leaning against the wall, naked and hard and lovely. Simon tears open the packet and slowly rolls the condom over his hard cock, looking at Ryan all the while.
Ryan enjoys the show, then squeezes some of the lube onto his fingertips before tossing it back to Simon.
"You should let me do that," Simon says.
"But it turns you on when I do it," Ryan points out.
Simon scowls, as he always does when Ryan is right, and Ryan is absolutely right, because if there is anything hotter than a post-kiss American pretty boy, it's that American pretty boy so hot for your cock that he leans over in front of you and shoves his own lubricated fingers up his arse to prepare himself for you. "I don't know when it happened," Simon thinks as he rubs lube over his cock, "but at some point, Simon my boy, you definitely passed through the looking glass if this is a regular occurrence."
Ryan straightens, his legs a little unsteady, and wipes his fingers on the towel. "Are you really going to pin me to the wall?" he asks, unable to keep the eagerness out of his voice.
"I never make a promise I can't keep," Simon answers. He moves closer to Ryan, grabbing him by the waist and lifting him up and against the wall. Ryan wraps his legs around Simon, reaching down between them to guide Simon's cock to his slickened hole.
"Let go, and hang on," Simon says, oddly, but Ryan knows just what he means. He moves his hands to Simon's shoulders and lets go a bit with his legs, letting gravity pull him about an inch down onto Simon's cock. Simon shoves Ryan's shoulders back against the wall and begins the work, thrusting his hips as he takes Ryan's weight on his legs and shoulders, and Ryan holds on, riding Simon like a bronco but for much longer than eight seconds. Ryan wants to kiss Simon but he knows Simon won't have it, not during the fucking, so he tongues Simon's right earlobe and whispers, "Fuck me fuck me fuck me," over and over, because he can't think of anything else to say but can't shut up either.
Simon is relentless, fucking him hard against the wall just as he said he would. Ryan feels like he's being cut in two and sewn back together again with every thrust and retreat, thrust and retreat, thrust and retreat. He abandons himself to the rhythm, feeling the soft fabric of Simon's t-shirt slide against his cock. Simon is grunting like a wild man, fucking him faster, and then his whole body slams against Ryan, against the wall, and Simon pants because he's coming in little bursts, little tiny gasping thrusts, so Ryan stays very still, grabbing Simon's cock tight with his ass, until Simon is done and he pulls out slowly.
Simon kisses Ryan's shoulder, then bends his knees to ease them both onto the floor. He catches his breath for a moment, kneeling over Ryan, and Ryan finds that he is panting, too. Then Simon licks his lips before taking Ryan's still-hard cock into his mouth, which was all Ryan really needed. His hips buck and he comes, hard, into Simon's mouth and Simon sucks it all down, every drop, and Ryan slumps down, again, spent and fucked and aching and loving it.
Simon sits back on his ass, reaching for two bottles of water on the table. He hands one to Ryan and knocks his own back in two big gulps, watching as Ryan drinks and catches his breath. Then, keeping eye contact with Ryan all the while, he leans down and kisses Ryan, tenderly, on the back of his knee. Ryan’s eyes widen and he can’t quite breathe, seeing the look in Simon’s eyes, and though he knows that with everything that they are and have been to each other over the past years he shouldn’t trust it, oh how he wants to. Then Simon sits up and the moment is over.
"Randy wants to go out," Simon says, slipping the condom off his cock and putting it into one of the small plastic bags from the top drawer of the dressing table. He reaches for his jeans and slips them back on.
Ryan nods, finishing up his own water. "Give me fifteen to take a shower and change," he says.
Simon stands and reaches down to Ryan to help him up. "We'll be waiting," he says, giving him a quick kiss before heading out the door, almost as though nothing had happened.
Well, of course. Nothing did happen. They had a quick post-show fuck, which a lot of people do to blow off all that adrenaline. It's not like they're an item. They'll probably each pick up a girl or two before the night is over.
Ryan looks at himself in the mirror. His hair is askew, his lips swollen. His back and hips will probably be covered with bruises by the morning. His hips feel cracked open like a lobster shell, but he's sure that ten minutes out with Randy will put the alpha male right back into his walk. He goes into his shower, wondering why, with the night just starting, it feels so anticlimactic.
It had been all of a week and already Simon was feeling out of sorts.
He was back home in London, concentrating on Syco and the second season of X-Factor, both of which he should certainly care about more than a foreign television show he didn't even own. Though certainly LA had its charms.
The problem was, one of those charms in particular seemed to have worked his way under Simon's skin. Pulling one off to the memory of a certain blond, tanned, green-eyed radio personality was one thing; the boy did have quite a talented mouth. But laying in bed mooning over a picture of the two of them? Not on.
It wasn't like he'd never see Ryan again, as Idol auditions started in the late fall. And he had plenty to occupy his mind before then. But something would happen and his fingers would fairly itch to pick up the phone and call Ryan and tell him about it, hear his reaction, his laughter, even the entertainment-biz savvy that rose to the surface when he was behind the scenes. Simon had never missed Ryan between seasons before.
Right, that wasn't strictly true. There wasn't time to miss him between seasons one and two, and he did see Ryan during the other hiatuses. But the longing had never set in so quickly, or been so sharp. Indeed, they had spent a bit more time this season just being together, rather than always fucking, and Ryan had even given him some useful advice about X-Factor. But to call him after only a week? No.
At dinner the next night Terri, typically, laughed at him. "Why can't you call him?" she asked. "He's your friend, not some girl you just met."
"It just seems early," Simon replied. "I wouldn't want him to think anything inaccurate."
She cocked her head and looked at him, amused, which was irritating. "Why don't you just do what you like," she said, "and if your signals get crossed then perhaps you two will finally have the conversation you probably should have had two years ago."
"Two years ago?" Simon asked. "I don't know about that."
"Simon, you've been talking and thinking about him for at least that long, if not longer," she said. "I don't know why you're only working this out now."
"I thought it was just sex," he said.
Terri shook her head. "You really are an idiot, you know that?"
"Well, thanks," Simon replied.
"I mean it," she continued. "Don't you ever stop to think about what you're feeling?"
"Of course not," Simon said, "as that would require thinking about my feelings."
"He's not going to do it for you, you know," she said. "He's not even going to force you to do it."
"I dunno. He's certainly broken it off with me enough times. But he always comes back."
"That sounds healthy."
He shrugged.
"If you want him," she said, "you should treat him like anything else you want, and go after him. If not, you should leave him alone. At this point the on-off is a bit silly, don't you think?"
Simon scowled, tapping his fingers on the table. Terri went on eating, leaving him to his thoughts.
Finally Simon said, "Go after him how?"
"You're the one who knows him," she said. "You'll work it out."
Problem was, Simon was used to buying presents for ladies, mostly jewelry. So his usual go-to's were no-go's.
He started with that hoariest of old standards, the mix tape, or really a mix cd. Not sappy, not particularly heartfelt, no liner notes; simply a sampling of 80's Britpop songs he thought Ryan would enjoy. He asked his personal shopper to find a jumper in that elusive shade of gray-green that matched Ryan's eyes. He reread a favorite book and sent a copy to Ryan.
He called when he wanted to call, and wrote emails when he wanted to, until they were exchanging quick notes on a daily basis and chatting on the phone at least once a week. Simon had never been much for phone calls, but he liked hearing Ryan's voice, being able to tease him in real time and hear that goofy laugh of his. They exchanged stories about their day, updates about their projects, even advice and contacts.
It was strange—when they were in the same place, they didn't really talk so much as they fucked and then cracked jokes. But now that they couldn't fuck, there was a seemingly endless supply of conversation. Simon started thinking about a future with Ryan in it, about whether they could hide love as well as they had hidden lust, and found that oddly, it didn't scare him at all. Rather, he was calmer, thinking about a life with Ryan, than he had been any time since they'd parted in the spring.
But this sort of thing needed to be hashed out in person, not via email or over the phone. He had to make sure that Ryan had picked up the message he'd been sending—though knowing Ryan, he probably had.
And so, in his last bit of spare time before the live X-Factor shows began in October, Simon took an unannounced weekend trip to LA.
Ryan decided to grow a beard that fall. After all, there weren't any crucial Hollywood parties—that is, the kind with photogs and step-and-repeats—until the KIIS-FM Jingle Ball at the end of November. He liked that the beard grew in light brown, making him look less like a lightweight and more like a rock and roller, and he was seriously considering ditching the highlights because they were so damn high maintenance. Besides, if everything went as he hoped with E! he'd have a lot more jobs in the near future, and he probably shouldn't draw quite so much attention to himself on the red carpet.
He would have thought that being in the middle of a major deal would take his thoughts off whatever the fuck Simon was doing, but it was the opposite. Every time the deal changed slightly, it was Simon he wanted to talk to, not so much for advice as commiseration. It made sense, since Simon was the only person he knew other than Merv who'd done anything as big as this. And Merv was a big help, no doubt, but Merv was from the old school, and he was slowing down. Simon, despite his age, was all modern, and if anything was speeding up.
Besides, as much as they were friends, on the romantic side Simon was just a post-show fuck, and had been no more and no less for four years now. Simon was older and liked bitchy, high-maintenance girls with big tits and lots of hair, everyone knew that. Ryan liked girls too, although he liked them better back when he was getting them with Simon. Now he got them instead of Simon, which wasn't the same thing.
Ellen, his morning show co-host, popped her head into the booth. "You all right?" she asked.
Ryan started a little at the sound of her voice. "Yeah, yeah, go, I'm just gonna listen to a few things."
"Okay, then," she said, and let the door close behind her.
Simon was sending him emails almost daily, and called about once a week since the end of the season, so Ryan knew what Simon was up to and still felt connected, which wasn't true during the other hiatuses. Ryan wondered what that meant but it was probably nothing since most of what they talked about was whether Paula was going to calm the fuck down and get together with that friend of Simon's. Though sometimes Simon sent him little things, like a CD of old songs or a book he thought Ryan should read, or even the crewneck Ryan was wearing which he had to admit really did match the color of his eyes.
After a minute the door opened again and Ryan wondered when Ellen became such a worrywart about his welfare when he heard a deep voice say, "Still a workaholic, then?"
Ryan looked up sharply. "I—probably," he said.
Simon walked in and perched on the edge of the console. "I suppose you've done a good job with that beard," he said, "if you must have one."
"Thanks," he replied. "When did you get into town?"
"This morning."
"Oh. You didn't say you were coming in," Ryan said, and then realized he sounded a little pouty, so he put on a tough expression.
"I wanted to surprise you," Simon said. "And I was thinking that we should buy a house up in the hills."
"Why in the—we?" Ryan asked, his voice cracking in spite of himself.
"You have to come in so early, the commute won't matter much," Simon continued, as if Ryan hadn't said anything, "and we won't have to fuck in dressing rooms any more, and we can bring girls home if we want, and I'll have another house to stay in when I'm not in London."
"Oh," Ryan said, trying to process this, and then he asked, "So you're planning on being in LA more often?"
"Well, yes," Simon replied, as if it was obvious.
"You didn't say anything about it. What brought this on?"
Simon stood up and walked around the room a little, as he did when he got frustrated, then turned to face Ryan. "Have you not been paying attention at all?"
Ryan stared at him, confused.
"I've been courting you, you fucking moron!"
Ryan remembered the emails and the phone calls and the gifts, and it was like getting new glasses—the world came into focus, so. "I'm sorry, Simon."
He looked up and saw Simon's face fall a little and quickly added, "No, I mean, I'm sorry I didn't get it. I mean, um, I'm not sorry, you know, about anything else."
"Right, you make absolutely no sense," Simon replied, and crossed his arms, because he'd just actually said something about a feeling he had and now he'd lost control of the situation, which always made him defensive. Ryan saw him, read it all in his body language, and knew that this was not going to be easy in any way previously known to man, but a crazy fun house of a relationship. But that was really okay, because he needed a new challenge anyway. A new personal life to go with the new professional life seemed about right.
"I was saying, I know a broker," Ryan said. He walked over to Simon and kissed him, hard, just to make sure Simon knew that he wasn't always going to be in charge of everything. "And also," Ryan continued, "you should have told me."
"Well, I'm telling you now," Simon said, a bit breathless.
"All right then," Ryan said, and kissed him again.
no subject
Date: 2011-01-18 02:00 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-18 08:46 pm (UTC)